


Inevitability

by melissa_42



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-06
Updated: 2010-09-06
Packaged: 2017-10-19 04:17:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/196782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melissa_42/pseuds/melissa_42
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Yamamoto and Gokudera were stuck in Salerno, not that it really mattered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inevitability

**Author's Note:**

> Depending on your interpretation, this fic may contain dub-con.

The first time was an accident, a product of nerves, fear and cheap Italian wine—the kind you get at the grocery store after you’ve already spent most of your meager allowance on tomatoes, pasta and rice (because the moron was homesick). You’d bought it yesterday, the day before the hit—the hit that you fucked up because you got too antsy and thought you could break yourselves out of this hellhole if you just took those fuckers out on your own. Too bad they had someone hiding behind that crate full of dead tuna. You would have laughed at the irony if you hadn’t been more focused on the bullet lodged in your bicep. 

That’s when you heard Yamamoto growl—actually growl like some feral beast—and watched in shock as he sliced the man’s right arm off. The poor chump toppled off the dock backwards and sunk into the bay in a cloud of bubbles and blood. His pals ran off without a second glance, probably to report to their boss that the Vongola meant serious business. It was basically free PR—if the Vongola was still around. You wouldn’t know; you hadn’t heard from any family members or allies since the mission started.

While you were thinking about the family, Yamamoto was busy knotting a makeshift tourniquet around your arm with his tie.

“We can’t go to the hospital,” you said, wincing as the silk cut into your skin.

Yamamoto grinned in response, but you could tell it was just a paper mask. “I never said you had to go to the hospital. I’ll take care of it when we get back to the hotel.”

He led you through the winding alleys of Salerno, back to the crumbling pension you were using as your base of operations. When you nearly keeled over with belated shock halfway up the rickety steps to your room, you let Yamamoto carry you the rest of the way. He set you down on the cracked, porcelain toilet in the dank lavatory and rummaged through the first-aid kit under the sink, pulling out some antiseptic, a roll of gauze, a towel, a set of forceps, a needle, and some thread.

“You’re gonna need something to sterilize that,” you mumbled.

He reached into the pocket of your slacks and pulled out your lighter. “Will this work?”

You nodded and then watched as he flicked the lid open and ran the forceps through the flame.   
He shoved a corner of the towel in your mouth, but it barely prevented you from biting through your tongue when he probed into the wound and pulled out the lump of lead. Then he cleaned the bleeding gash with antiseptic, sterilized the needle, and sewed the hole closed. While he wrapped your arm in gauze, you spat out the towel.

“ _Fuck_ , that hurt!”

Yamamoto gave a small smile as he cleaned up the mess. “Bullet wounds usually do.”

“Is there any aspirin in there?” you asked, tentatively prodding at the bandage.

“No, I think we used it all up.”

You sighed and stood with a slight wobble. “Then let’s break out the wine. I feel like getting shit faced.”

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea, haha!” Yamamoto protested but made no move to stop you.

“Yamamoto, I just got  _shot_. If I want to get drunk, I’m going to get drunk,  _capiti_?”

“Well, if you’re sure you’ll be okay…” Yamamoto followed you into the microscopic kitchen. “I could use something for my nerves, too.”

“ _Your_  nerves?” You scoffed as you pulled one of the wine bottles from the fridge with your good arm. When you turned around to find Yamamoto’s trembling frame, you froze.

“I was really w-worried about you, haha,” Yamamoto replied, taking the bottle from you and opening it with the cork screw lying on the counter. “Glasses?”

“Don’t need ‘em.” You led the way back to the bedroom where you slumped onto one of the beds, careful not to disturb your injury. Yamamoto sat next to you and took a swig before handing over the bottle. When you took your turn, the alcohol was bitter at the back of your throat, melting into you flesh and numbing your skin and mind—exactly what you needed. Yamamoto’s smile reached his eyes like it hadn’t in a week—exactly what  _he_  needed.

The rest of the evening was pushed down the metaphorical hill of inevitability, acted on by gravity, picking up momentum until suddenly you were half naked on the mattress and Yamamoto was licking a trail down your abdomen. 

He groaned as he took you in his mouth. You were pretty sure that he wasn’t supposed to be the one making all the noise, so you let a drawn out moan slip from your throat as well. His mouth was hot around you, and his fingertips left indents in your thighs. The way his teeth grazed against the delicate skin of your cock sent electric shocks up and down your spine, making your toes and fingers curl deliciously.

All too soon, he pulled away and crawled on top of you, pressing his hips to yours and grinding down. When he kissed the shoulder of your bad arm, the jolt of reality was so strong that for one abrupt moment, you felt more sober than you had since arriving in Salerno, cut off from the Vongola until further notice.

“Wait, what are we doing?” You hissed, trying to stop Yamamoto’s movements with your good arm. He panted against your neck in protest.

“Please.” He begged. “Please.”

The frantic tone of his voice echoed against the back of your skull, and you gave in all too easily, wrapping a leg against the back of his thigh to drive him on. Part of you would have liked to have blamed the wine, but you knew that the real culprit was the aggregation of skin on skin and lips on lips that had accumulated over the past few weeks of isolation, supposedly there to pass the time, to keep your sanity intact. Yamamoto hadn’t taken well to being stranded in Italy, and neither had you. You hadn’t expected to fall in this deep with your partner, but you had, and worrying about it now was too much of a hassle.

Yamamoto tensed and came on your belly, dragging you down with him. You briefly wondered if this anomaly only existed in Italy, but you blacked out before finishing that thought.

He apologized the next morning.

“I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t mean to force myself on you like that.”

He was already dressed and had a set of clothing hung up on the door of the closet for you.

“Nerves,” you said.

“Yeah, nerves.” He scratched the back of his head. “How’s your arm?”

“Hurts like hell.”

You did nothing the entire day except read the newspaper, send Yamamoto out for painkillers, and wonder if you were supposed to regret sleeping with him. You wondered how much he regretted sleeping with you.

That night, he crawled into bed with you and rubbed circles against your back.

“This is okay, right?” he asked.

You grunted. When his hands tickled patterns up the skin of your sides, you didn’t protest.

“When was the last time you heard anything from Tsuna?”

It was the same question he’d posed every other day for the past two weeks. You began to wonder if this was what limbo felt like.

Yamamoto ignored your silence and pressed a kiss to the back of your neck, the same thing he’d done every other day for the past two weeks, but then his hands wandered down to cup your groin, something fresh and new.

“I’ll stop if you want me to.” He murmured into your hair.

“We’re not drunk.”

“Is that an answer?”

It wasn’t, so you let him jack you off and rub against your ass. Your cum made you feel sticky and uncomfortable, until Yamamoto left and came back with a damp towel to clean you. When you asked him if this was part of a new routine, he just shrugged.

“I don’t want to die here with regrets.”

“We’re not dying.”

He smiled sadly and poked you in the arm above your bandage before laughing at the way you snarled at him.

On Sunday evening a week later, he fucked you on the floor. Though neither of you had any experience with anal sex, and the first few thrusts were excruciating, you gradually felt the heat in your belly build back up to a steady simmer. As he moaned secrets against your skin, you wondered if this was some sort of bizarre therapy for him. Feeling him fill you seemed pretty therapeutic to you. Each time he withdrew, you whined in protest at how empty you felt, how needy you felt, until he entered you again, and you were biting back lewd moans for an entirely different reason. With him over you and inside you, it felt as if you two weren’t really stranded in this fucked up town, waiting either to fade away or for word from someone in the Vongola—whichever came first. At this point you weren’t sure if you cared anymore.

You screamed when your orgasm ripped through you, contracting your muscles and bowing your body into Yamamoto’s. He swallowed your voice with a kiss, suckling eagerly at your lips as he jerked erratically against you before releasing himself inside with a cry of his own. His skin was hot against yours, and when he lay atop you a little longer than necessary, you fought between the desires to push him off or hold him closer.

“If we get back to Japan alive, will you remember this?” Yamamoto asked a few days later, tracing the sweaty planes of your chest with his index finger.

“Does it matter?” You amended your answer when you saw his eyebrows twitch. “Whether we get back, I mean.”

“No, I guess not.”

The conversation continued with a kiss, with teeth and lips and tongue. Yamamoto’s fingers twitched against the sheets as you mouthed his cock, engorged and slick with your saliva. With your lips wrapped around him, you looked up to his flushed face. He whimpered breathlessly when your eyes met and threaded a hand through your hair, cradling the back of your head in his palm. When you swallowed the head of his cock, he came undone, eyes glazed and mouth slack around the moaned syllables of your given name. 

After you had pulled away and curled yourself around his useless, jellified limbs, you asked the question that had been plaguing your mind since the night you were shot.

“Would this have happened anyway?”

“Huh?” Yamamoto blinked dumbly in his post-orgasmic haze.

You gesture between your bodies. “This,” you say. “Would this have happened if we weren’t stuck here?”

Yamamoto lifted a hand to run a gentle thumb over the healing wound on your arm. “I don’t know. Maybe. My willpower’s not that strong, haha.”

You woke up with your legs tangled together and Yamamoto’s head resting on your chest. For a brief, irrational second, you felt like you were at home, but then you remembered that the Japanese didn’t use their car horns with such fervor, and that Yamamoto had never slept with you in your bed. You wondered what his hair would look like mussed against your pillowcase, but the thought slipped from your mind as quickly as it entered because you might never see your pillowcase again. The notion didn’t scare you as much as it used to.

Yamamoto stirred and mumbled your name. As you smiled, your cell phone rang for the first time in a month. The call was from Japan.


End file.
